Obsolete
by NotVerySincere
Summary: A desperate man finally achieves perfection, but learns that perfection is sometimes more obsolete than reality. Contains Clone death.


**_Author's Note:_**

 _Well, this ain't my first rodeo, but it is the first one I'm posting._ _Villain Psychology is my favourite topic. Aren't motivations fascinating?_

* * *

 **Obsolete**

You shake violently as you bury your face in your hands. There is stinging hate blackening your chest, along with a little fury, coiling around you and tightening such that you have difficulty doing naught else but pant shuddering breaths that vibrate your core, which protests and twists with a fiery sensation next to your heart. You know you probably look hideously pathetic in that moment, and very vulnerable, kneeling amongst the debris and foundations of months upon months of hard work and scientific breakthroughs that would have put many a researcher to shame.

All that effort and sweat had been put to the test. Every late night of pins and needles from sitting for too long, slaving away as night crept by to early morning, unnoticed by you. You are a demanding person, even to yourself, and you demanded perfection.

 _Perfection._ What a beautiful word.

You scrolled past nearly six months of research, taken carefully, tasting the theory on the tip of your tongue as you observed intricate patterns of ectoplasmic cells and blood, strands of genetics meticulously stolen and put through every machine in your laboratory. Ectoplasm did not follow scientific rules closely, a fact you were eternally grateful for, since you were trying to break the rules. The thought of going against nature or violating what remained of your humanity had probably crossed your mind. Maybe. Once. But it did little to deter your persistence, since you had broken worse rules before.

You were of ectoplasm too. And you did not follow the rules closely, either.

You were of blood and flesh too. And you had limits. Loosened morals that stopped you from crossing a line you had set for yourself long ago. Granted, the line constantly shifted, but it was there.

The line blinked annoyingly in your face a few times.

It did not dull your drive even the slightest, and so you pushed on. A few mistakes were made, but you were nearly there. So close to achieving your perfection that you craved ravenously for so long. A few more steps. Just an inch further. More rules to break. So, very close.

But you did not reach it.

 _He. Destroyed._

 _Everything._

Daniel destroyed everything. Him and your little mistake, the blaring line that warned you how far you were taking your desire. The little line that you exploited and ignored.

Your hate is familiar, but not usually directed at its current victim. It is usually reserved for the fat, bumbling oaf who unwittingly ruined your life. Your schemes and planning, even the one which is in ruins at your feet, was always directed at the idiot who proudly called himself Jack Fenton. Every ploy to kill him, every desire to steal Jack Fenton's family away from him was to carve into his mind the horrible feeling of losing everything.

And you really did lose it all, didn't you? But not because of Jack. No. It was because of Daniel this time. Stubborn, foolish and naïve Daniel. The only person who knew what it was like to be caught between life and death, the only person who had been beaten so many times and would always stand up to you, matching the vengeful spirit that lurked right below your skin, knowing how outmatched he was, but do well at a chess game he barely knew he played. Quick-witted Daniel and his fascinating personality. You would have given much to hear him call you 'father', at first, purely so you could rub it in Jack Fenton's oversized face, but your reasons changed with every fight you had with your young rival. He was the only other halfa, he was stupidly refusing your much-needed guidance, he was being annoying, you hate his father.

You hate Jack Fenton, you justify, as you slam Danny Phantom through layers of asphalt, ignoring his cry of pain.

You hate Jack Fenton, you agree, as you watch familiar red and green pool around the claws you had developed as a ghost.

Nothing personal.

You hate Jack Fenton, you scream, as your cold anger drives you to warp your morals and energizes you to type furiously on metallic keyboards and glare at tiny screens which reflect complicated inner anatomy and statistics endlessly. And prototype numbers.

Prototype, really? It felt inhumane to call a sapient and self-aware creature a string of numbers and letters, as if reducing a sentient being to nothing more than a machine or invention. Fortunately, you were not fully human.

You hate Jack Fenton, you think, as you clone his son.

You hate him. You instruct your only partially stable and intelligent clone to find her original and lay a trap. Her. Something had gone wrong. Very, very wrong.

Calling Danielle 'daughter' felt like such an insult to Daniel, and meeting her adoring green-eyed gaze, you feel only disappointment and disgust. But not at the little girl who was so eager to please, though it would have been easier to think of it that way. Your hate for her was for yourself. You hated how manipulative she could be, you hated the little habits she had picked up from you. Daniel would never position or stand in a way that made him seem more powerful. You almost felt like you were tainting him, instead.

God, you hated how desperate and pathetic you were. Danielle would never be Daniel. Appearance wise, they could have been twins, but she was too much like you on the inside. She never went through the hardships you did, but Daniel was more righteous, more determined than she was, and Danielle had her own brand of cunning and willingness to play dirty that was clearly from you. Danielle was her own person. She was not Daniel.

Then again, was that such a bad thing?

Daniel was too much like his father that your rivalry had become personal. He had destroyed everything you worked for.

Again. And again.

Your laughter bubbles out of your aching chest, twisted and wrong. Your eyes burn. You hate Daniel. You hate Danielle. You hate yourself.

Bright green light cascades over the ruins of your Colorado lab, causing you to freeze and snap out of your reflections, breaking you out of your dangerous train of thought. Machines whir to life from the less destroyed portion of the room.

" _Beta Clone PX7345D trial 631_ stable. Mid-morph sample transferred. Initiating start up procedure and release sequence." A cool, and thankfully not Maddie, woman's voice announces.

You turn your head slowly in disbelief, and your feet cannot move fast enough as you propel yourself unsteadily toward the opening pod.

You ruffle hair like freshly fallen snow gently, as if it is made of porcelain, and hug the head to your chest with shaking hands, your knees going out beneath you and you crumble, pulling him with you.

Perfect. No flaws. No damages. He is perfect.

He looks confused, and his echoing voice, boyish and exactly like Daniel's, rings in your ears. "F…father?"

You sob as you breathe in the chemical and ectoplasmic scent of your son's hair.

Your son. _Yours_. And perfect in every way.

* * *

You are more careful this time. Previously, when desperation was your motivation, you had nothing to lose and everything to gain when you played father for Danielle. You taught her to cheat and deceive. You taught her any morally ambiguous tactic you thought she may have needed. Brains over brawn, since her powers could potentially destabilize her.

You were tainting her, tainting her likeness with Daniel, but you had been too desperate too care.

You did not do so with your son. You knew what went wrong the first time, how Danielle was too much like you to be Daniel, so you did not coach him like you did with Danielle. In fact, you hardly coached him at all. You could hardly bear to be in his presence, as if terrified you would taint him by just being near him.

You were too insecure and lonely, even with him by your side, and too afraid to mess up.

* * *

You work in your newly rebuilt laboratory with unacknowledged fervour, humming over the metallic thrum of your computer. You glance at the time, momentarily, the numbers making you pause. It was early in the morning.

At this realisation, your exhaustion hits you at full force, making you sway from your position hunched over the polished screen, but you force it down, lethargy and nausea ebbing away as you attempt to clear your head.

You did not want to go back.

Not yet.

Daniel was asleep upstairs. Da…Your son, was asleep, and you had been steadily avoiding him for three days now.

 _"Why not? He's perfect, isn't he?"_ An image of Danielle, the little traitor, asks sadly, lips forming in a pout as her green eyes danced.

You shake your head as your exhausted mind plays tricks on you, only to find the air void of Danielle, but instead assaulted by another unwanted intruder. Your throat tightens at the sight of green eyes that swirled with the electric aura of the ghost zone, shadowed but bright nonetheless with the experiences that had taken a toll on a teenager far too young to seem like a war veteran. A nearly invisible scar hovers right at his jawline, near the collar of his jumpsuit, stretching from where many adversaries, including you, had tried to slash his throat.

His smile flickered and widened into something your son could not hope to imitate.

 _"Nobody is perfect."_ He laughs.

Nonsense. Your son was perfect. He was obedient, intelligent, hardworking-

 _"If your son is perfect in every way, why don't you call him Daniel?"_ He tilts his head, floating over the machinery painstakingly chosen and rearranged after Daniel's last visit. You feel a stab of irrational fear when his eyes flick to them, despite knowing that your imagination could not do much against reality.

 _"You're not giving me a response here, fruitloop."_

You have no answer for him.

 _"But I do. And you know it too."_ His face shifts and settles on something that looks akin to regret, looking like he was chiding an errant child. _"Don't make me say it, old man."_

The answer? The answer that you are not happy? Your son is perfect, and you know this full well. But…was that what you had wanted?

Daniel, or at least, the illusion of him, was right. You know it well. Too well, the thought at the edge of your mind since you first laid eyes on your son. Why did you think another clone would do any better than Danielle again? No one, no matter how perfect, could ever replace Daniel, because Daniel was flawed. And Daniel could never stop hating you.

Your son called you father. Your son wanted to impress you. He did not have a single mark on his skin, nor shadows in his eyes, like Daniel did.

Your son is not Daniel.

 _"No. He's not."_

Daniel was not obedient to a fault. Daniel did not work hard on studies or his education, because Daniel had priorities.

 _"A person is not built from machines or DNA. We are made of experiences that build our character and personality into what it is."_ His shadowed eyes watch you, suddenly seeming much older than he physically was.

Your son did not share the same experiences Daniel did. Your son did not have the same history with you. He was not incredibly determined or overly righteous in the face of enemies four times his size. Simply put, he was not Daniel. You shut your eyes, knowing that it would not help against the truth of the situation.

 _ **Dammit.**_

 _"I guess I'm not obsolete after all. Whoops, there I go, foiling your plans again…"_ The little rat has the gall to sound hysterically happy and sassy. The memory of his voice fades as you snap out of your trance. Of course, since he was never there in the first place, just your conscience tugging at you. Your thoughts spin faster.

You open your eyes, and Danny Phantom is gone.

A chuckle forces its way out as you relax. You are tired, yes, but you need to clear something up first. Tie off a few loose ends. Then you could finally rest.

An icy numbness consumes your mind as you grab an ecto-gun from beside the computer.

You phase through walls and ceilings, still in human form, barely registering that it had been a good idea that you remained in Colorado, far away from civilisation, where you were undisturbed and did not need to worry about attracting unwanted guests, and no human housekeeper or servant could interfere.

You come to stop in a dark room, where a mop of black hair moves underneath the covers of the enormous four-poster bed. You try not to think of how much he looks like Daniel, the cold metal of the gun biting into your fingertips.

"Goodnight, _son_." You say calmly, and do not let the bleary blue eyes focus on you before you press the gun to PX7345D's temple.

"D…da-?"

You pull the trigger and watch everything you ever cared about crumble and dissolve, by your own hand.


End file.
